


Oh, Go On & Treat Me Bad

by thecopperkid



Series: so good at being in trouble, so bad at being in love [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Choking, Coming In Pants, Frat Boy Billy, Frottage, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 22:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14066514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecopperkid/pseuds/thecopperkid
Summary: “So what are you waiting for? Hit me, if it’s gonna make you feel better.”Billy twines his fingers in Steve’s jacket, thuds Steve's head against the wall.“Ihateyou,” he seethes again, breathing so heavy Steve is convinced he might pass out, and it’s harder to see in the dark now, but they stay locked staring like they’ll miss something if they look away for even a second.*The day after they video chat, Billy and Steve meet up to smoke. Billy makes it weird again, as usual.





	Oh, Go On & Treat Me Bad

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from "Staff Only" by Lauren Ruth Ward.

Steve’s posted up by the window in the dining hall at a high top meant for three people, tapping the toe of one leather boat shoe against the footrest with abandon, on his fourth cup of coffee and showing every sign of it (he’s hungover, and anyway, the mugs are too small, he’d argue if someone pointed this out to him). One of the student workers has shuffled through his section six times in the past hour, staring at him fussily through thick-framed glasses, probably wondering when she’s going to be able to wipe down his table. 

Billy’s text told him to “swing by after 5,” but that’s too vague for him — Steve needs details, and he’s sick of waiting here deliberating between showing up too early or too late. He had the whole popular thing down in high school, and part of it was pretending not to care how he acted when he actually fucking cared a _lot_. 

This is stupid. Just fucking dumb. He’s already had to turn down sushi with Eliza Godfrey tonight, the one with the nose ring and freckly tits. Even worse, Dar, the Israeli girl from his food science elective, had texted him to come over to her dorm later. He’s passing up that sexy accent and endearing language barrier for _this._ Steve tells himself it’s because he’d smoked the last of his weed the night before and Billy has the best bud on campus that will get him baked off two hits. But that’s just not the whole truth.

So when the clock above the salad bar reads 4:30, he decides he’s waited long enough. 

Fiji is having a fire tonight, and Steve can smell it through his windows as he pulls into the driveway, dense in the vernal air. He kills the engine and Tame Impala along with it, padding across the gravel toward the house. The place looks different at twilight than at three in the morning. A large old brick place, it’s the second nicest fraternity house on campus. The jangle of psychedelic rock is drifting from a window and cans, cups and other trash from last night has been abandoned in the grass. He hasn’t ever been here before dark, and now that he thinks about it, he’s never actually been here _sober_ , really. 

The brothers in Fiji are kind of a strange fusion — Steve had been surprised Billy rushed there when he heard about it. Some guys are kind of redneck, others are the type of guy Steve sees onstage playing bass in the local music scene, but all of them are fucking alcoholics that somehow pass their classes alright to stay off probation. Maybe that’s how Billy fit in.

Steve wades through the crowd in the backyard, exchanging pleasantries with the guys he knows. He finds Billy sitting nobly in a lawn chair, bathed in the glow of the firelight like some kind of Oberon-esque prince of the underworld. Billy’s legs are spread wide and he’s slumped slightly to the side, his head propped up on one arm as he watches wood burn. He’s got his usual denim jacket on and tight black pants that are ripped at the knees, with a light grey shirt that Steve notices is criminally riding up his side from how he’s sitting. His blonde curls are tied up at the back of his scalp in a bun. 

Billy breaks into a grin when he recognizes Steve, first by his boat shoes. He lifts his head lazily. “Harrington.”

Steve looks around at the brothers, feeling something is off. “Am I missing something? I don’t see anyone vomiting yet.”

“Very good, Stevie,” Billy admires, standing up. He reaches inside in his jacket for his cigarettes and beckons toward the woods. Steve follows dumbly. “Tonight’s a lock-in until midnight. No beer, and no bitches. So I guess that means _you_ gotta leave.” 

He lights up a cigarette, rips it, then offers it to an eye-rolling Steve, who hesitantly accepts.

“No, seriously, should I even be here?” Steve asks. He sucks on the cigarette, passes back to Billy as they pad along the damp, beaten-down grass. “Isn’t this one of your bonding activities?” 

Billy screws up his face, the American Spirit dangling out of the corner of his mouth. Steve only narrowly avoids a puddle of mud because he’s not looking where he’s going, fascinated by the way Billy bounces the thing around in his mouth when he speaks, weighing it in different places depending on the sound he's making, the vowel he’s pronouncing, practiced at keeping it from falling.  

“If anyone asks, you’re buying some pot off me,” he says. “No big deal.” 

“Speaking of,” Steve starts. “I’m still kind of hungover, we should smoke.” The roar of the brothers is faint at this point on the path, and instead all Steve can hear is the chant of the baby frogs in the wetlands behind campus, a hypnotizing chorus that spring is finally here. It surrounds them, is deafening.

“Where do you _think_ we’re going, Harrington? Of course we’re smoking,” Billy says. He walks out of his way to jump on a a fallen branch, breaking it in jagged halves with a crisp snap. “Technically, we aren’t supposed to do it in the house. Fucks with the fire alarms. So we usually come chill out here. And besides, I’m not sticking around in the yard, because if we do, Anthony will probably recruit you, and that’s all I fuckin’ need.”

They come upon a large shed, a maroon paint job chipping with age and wooden versions of Billy’s greek letters posted above the door. 

“This looks kind of sketchy. Is this where you roofie me?”

“Relax, asshole,” Billy snorts. He hits the cigarette a few more times to finish it, putting it out in the mucky path. “If I wanted to fuck you, I’d fuck you. I know I don’t need to drug you.”

He slides back the barn-like door and sprawls himself against the arm of a tattered couch. Steve’s lagging behind, preoccupied with ducking to avoid lacy overhang of spider webs. He edges his way into the shed carefully, searching for the least dirty place to sit. He’s only just gotten these pants, after all.

Steve perches tentatively on the opposite side of the couch as Billy pulls out his bong from a side table and begins packing it with the contents of a black grinder in his jacket pocket. Steve tries not to think about how long that water has been inside the bong, or how many people have put their mouths on it. 

“So no plans tonight?” Billy asks, without taking his eyes away from where he’s sprinkling the ground weed into the slider. “When I texted earlier, I thought you would ditch. Thought our token pretty boy would have somewhere to be.” 

He offers Steve the first hit, which Steve is gracious to accept. The lighter illuminates the dark shed in a little orange bubble of color. He pulls out the slider while he sucks too hard and instantly, as fucking usual, Steve’s embarrassing himself in front of Billy fucking Hargrove by rasping into a throaty coughing fit. Billy thumps him on the back sort of condescendingly.

“Shit,” Billy drawls, delighted. “Steve Harrington can’t fucking hang. Put to shame by Mike Wheeler.”

And that boils Steve’s blood. He had been about to tell Billy he’d rather be here than with any of the girls that tried to fuck him tonight, but he’s just gone and made a fool of himself with the bong, his throat burning and eyes tearing up, and his skin still prickles with anger that Billy got him to do things he would never think of doing last night. So he starts bragging, that desire to compete with Billy always alight inside him.  

“Dude, Dar did hit me up today,” Steve says when he’s recovered, chancing a side glance at Billy as he takes the bong back. 

“Dar? _The_ Dar?” He’s clearly impressed, in total shock a girl would choose Steve over him.

“Like there’s another Dar we know,” Steve smiles. He settles into the couch, inching a little closer, maybe, gathering his legs beneath him with his back against the arm so he’s facing Billy.

“You fuck her yet, bro?” 

Steve shakes his head. Shrugs.

“So, why you hanging out with me, then?” Billy scrunches up his nose, his mustache crinkling beneath it. The lighter makes a familiar _shick_ as he leans in to take a hit. “She’s hot as fuck. If she was trying to get _my_ dick tonight, I’d be outta here. No offense.”

In the rhythm, Steve receives the bong back from Billy, determined this time to not look like an idiot this time as he rips it a few times in a row. His head has begun to buzz. 

“Jesus Christ, Harrington,” he says sourly. “You are such a waste of pot. Are you even inhaling?”

“I think I know how to do drugs,” says Steve, stifling a cough.

“You haven’t even been clearing it,” Billy points out. “It’s alright, I’ll help you. C’mere.” He gestures impatiently, and the bong water sloshes against the glass as he nestles it between his legs.

Steve just _freezes_ because he doesn’t get it, can’t discern where this is going, and he’s buzzy enough that he knows talking will make it worse as he isn’t interested in letting Billy hear his stoned inner monologue. Billy grabs Steve by the collar of his ringer and drags him forward so he has to crawl on his knees across the worn fabric to keep from falling onto Billy, arm braced against the back of the couch. 

“Now, watch me,” says Billy, demonstrating pompously.

Steve huffs a sigh as he observes Billy leaning over the bong, the way he lights it up and sucks at the stem. But there’s no time to snark at him because Billy crowds in close, way closer than Steve’s maybe ever gotten with him before, so he can smell that Billy’s sweating through his deodorant a little bit, can almost fucking _taste_ that stupid musky cologne Billy always mists on in the locker room, met with those stormy blue eyes that seem to see right through him. 

If Steve didn’t know any better, he might say Billy looks as nervous as he feels.

And then Billy tilts his head like he’s going to kiss him, which frightens Steve. Scares the absolute shit out of him. Billy reaches a hand up through Steve’s hair, fingers stroking his scalp, and blows the smoke into Steve’s mouth, his lips ghosting over Steve’s own so delicately and precisely _not_ touching, their mouths repelling like the invisible force of pushing two wrong ends of magnets together.

They’re hovering. Steve holds the smoke in because he’s scared of what will happen if he lets it out. Like he’ll lose this, Billy searching Steve’s face through those long lashes, his fingers still wound at the back of his head. The silence between them thunders. If it wasn’t for the screeching frogs in the forest, Steve’s certain Billy could hear his disobedient heart hammering beneath his ribcage.

Billy snaps out of it. He scrambles to put distance between where they'd just shotgunned, suddenly very interested in the bowl pack. And Steve just can’t fucking _pretend_ like Billy can. So much for acting like he didn’t care.

“What the fuck is this, Billy?” he blurts. “Are we just _not_ going to talk about last night?”

The bong gurgles in response.

“Nothing to talk about,” Billy finally grunts out through smoke, brushing it off expertly, the slider pinched between his large tan fingers. 

But it’s Steve and he doesn’t want to let it drop. He’d been mulling it over what that night meant since he showered this morning, letting it eat at him when he stood under the hot spray for twenty minutes extra than it took to condition his hair, until the football player from down the hall banged a meaty fist on the door, shouted “Hurry the fuck up!” loud enough to startle Steve away from the thoughts he’d believed he was alone with. 

“That’s just a fucking lie,” Steve says. 

“What do you want me to say?” Billy demands. He sets down his things on the table and turns to narrow his eyes defensively. “That I’m, like, _into_ you?”

Steve’s still perched on his knees, falls silent. 

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” muses Billy as he reads Steve’s face. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“But, Dar, I mean—” he tries to remind Billy, tries to validate himself, his voice weaker than he’d meant.

“Everybody wants to fuck her, Harrington,” he dismisses Steve. And it’s so frustrating to Steve that Billy won’t meet his eyes. “You’re not special. Look, I need a _fucking_ drink.”

He’s getting up to leave but Steve grapples at his denim sleeve, because it’s not over that easy. Still, Billy’s stronger and he shakes him off with little effort. 

“Don’t fucking walk off like that,” Steve tells him. 

“Well, I can’t do this right now,” says Billy. “I have to get back, okay, it’s getting late and the guys are gonna wonder where I’m at.” But the thing is, he doesn’t leave, he’s just fucking standing there at the open doorway like Steve’s a crashed car that he can’t look away from, like he wants to see what happens next if he wasn’t there.

“You can’t just do that,” Steve says, gesturing between them so Billy knows exactly what he means. “You can’t just do whatever the fuck that was and expect me to act like one of your brothers the next day.”

“I was just messing with you,” Billy says after a minute, taking a few threatening steps back toward where Steve’s still alert on the couch, like Billy’s feeling cornered and he’s trying to reverse it on Steve instead. “It wasn’t a fuckin’ _kiss_.”

And right away Billy knows he fucked up saying that. 

“You said that, not me,” Steve insists. “I didn’t go there.” He can tell that really ticks Billy off because his jaw tightens, teeth bared almost tiger-like, and Steve knows that look in Billy’s eyes too well from all those years on the court and the football field, knows he’s probably about to get his fucking ass kicked but it excites Steve rather than terrifies him like it should.

Billy snags Steve by the collar again, menacing in a way that would probably freak other guys out and make them back down, but Steve’s head is still swimming with the high, and he can’t stop fucking smiling back, their faces inches apart. 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Billy asks, so deadly quiet Steve isn’t sure he even said a word.

“You can’t stop touching me,” Steve notes. The thrill is evident in his voice. 

“Oh, I’m about to fuckin’ touch you, Harrington, I’ll fuckin’ _kill_ you,” Billy spits as he yanks Steve up from the couch so they're at level with one another, and Steve stumbles in the dark with the sudden movement. Billy shoves him backward between two wooden chairs against the opposite wall so his legs knock uncomfortably against them where he knows he’ll probably have bruises in the morning, and then he pins Steve there by his throat. “God, I fuckin’ _hate_ you.”

“So what are you waiting for? Hit me, if it’s gonna make you feel better.” 

Billy twines his fingers in Steve’s jacket, thuds Steve’s head against the wall. 

“I _hate_ you,” he seethes again, breathing so heavy Steve is convinced he might pass out, and it’s harder to see in the dark now, but they stay locked staring like they’ll miss something if they look away for even a second. He slumps into Steve like he’s just too exhausted to do anything else, his head craned as he lays it limp in the crook of Steve's neck. 

Steve doesn’t know what to do with his arms, so he just keeps them helplessly at his sides as Billy sinks into him. His body is hot and heavy weight against Steve’s own, and Steve can feel that they’re both inevitably hard against each other’s legs, at an awkward angle. And it’s like, it’s one thing to jack off with a guy over the dorm Wifi and it’s another overwhelming, suffocating thing to feel a dick straining against his thigh for the first time.

But Billy doesn’t move away so neither does Steve.

And it’s not a thing that needs to be said, so they don’t dare say a fucking word at first, equally wary of what it means and what would happen if they stopped.

Steve shifts them around so they’re rubbing against each other through their pants, at first kind of hesitant like they could still call it an accident if the other was to say something about it, but then picking up the pace in desperation. 

Steve keeps thinking Billy’s going to jump away from him in disgust, punch him in the face, possibly, but then Billy’s mouth is on his neck licking feverishly at the pale skin with his tongue flattened out, and Steve gasps, his cock twitching in his pants. He turns his head and surprises Billy by forcing their lips together, not letting there be any argument about it this time — they’re fucking _kissing_ , all thirst and tongue and wet sliding lips, the hairs on Billy’s upper lip prickling into Steve's. He’s known Billy forever, has seen him sweating and screaming and punching and laughing and flirting and charming, but he’s never seen him groaning like that, almost begging, urgent and pliant. 

But the thing is, Steve’s not really sure what to _do_. Because he’s never done _this,_ not with someone like Billy. And from how Billy is coming apart with a kiss, he’s almost certain they’re in the same boat. 

So they don’t make any big moves to do anything, because they’ve got plenty of time; there’s no fumbling with belt buckles or shoving hands down pants or getting on knees. Instead, they just stay, hands splaying over each other’s chests under the fabric of their t-shirts, hips arching up so they can grind their cocks together.

“Christ,” Billy grits out as he resumes tonguing up Steve’s neck, sucking his earlobe into his mouth. “You do this with every guy who tries to kick your ass?” Steve can’t be sure, but he thinks this is Billy’s way of testing the water, curious as to who he’s been with. It’s just like Billy to be so competitive, to want to be the first, and Steve won’t admit he’s into astrology but he’s categorized Billy as an unequivocal Aries. 

“I’m so high, you’re gonna make me come like this,” Steve is gushing breathlessly, surprised at himself. He’s got one hand on Billy’s ass and the other massaging at the stray curls that have fallen from the bun, guiding his head along the places Steve likes his neck sucked.

“Yeah, baby,” Billy purrs as he humps Steve harder, snaking a hand around Steve’s back and dipping just the pads of his fingers into Steve’s waistline. “Gonna make you come in your fuckin’ pants.” 

“What if someone comes out here? The door’s open.”

“I don’t fuckin’ care,” Billy says. “I’m close. They can stay and watch if they like.”

“You’re slutty,” Steve hears himself say. “Such a fucking slut.” He doesn’t know where that came from, but Billy looks up, prideful like he knew that already. He leans in and sucks on Steve’s lower lip and the feeling goes straight to Steve’s achingly hard dick. 

“I want you to suck my cock,” he whispers against Steve’s lips. “ _Fuck_ , wanna fuck your throat. Want you to swallow for me. You gonna swallow my come, baby?” 

Billy reaches up and slides two thick fingers into Steve’s mouth, watches as Steve doesn’t know what to do at first, but he adapts and slowly begins bobbing his head, running his tongue along the bottom of them. He fucks Steve’s mouth with his fingers, never stopping the rhythm they’d built up with their hips. 

“You like being choked, baby? Fuck yeah. You love it, you love it when I fuckin’ choke you. You would take my dick so good.”

Steve moans wantonly around his fingers, making Billy thrust in a little too hard, his sharp nails scraping the back of Steve’s throat. He gags and his eyes tear up at the corners as he tries to keep sucking sloppily on Billy’s wet fingers. 

“Shit, Steve,” Billy says. He rests his glistening forehead against Steve’s shoulder. “I’m so close, I can’t believe I’m gonna fuckin’ come in my pants, like I’m in middle school.” 

They’re in mirth, laughing deliriously like this is the most ridiculous thing they’ve ever done, because it _is_ , because they keep grunting and fucking up into each other, just leaning against the wall instead of moving somewhere more comfortable because they don’t want to break the trance they’ve fallen into.

“Fuck, Billy, come for me,” Steve manages, his words obscured by Billy’s fingers. “Want you to come all over me.”

Steve feels his thighs tingling with heat and knows he’s going to come first this time, their cocks lining up just right that the friction sends him over the edge. He’s sputtering around his full mouth because Billy’s just hammering into his throat now, trying to get himself there. The orgasm ripples through Steve and his body twitches involuntarily as he blows his load, spurting into his pants as he chokes out an open-mouthed moan, hot and lazy against the sweaty curls that hang down Billy’s supple neck.

“I’m gonna come,” Billy babbles. He grinds desperately against Steve, faster. “Baby, I’m gonna come so hard.”

Then Billy’s grunting lewdly in between staggered intakes of breath, and it’s so aggressive and visceral and masculine and _hot_ , almost agonized, nothing like the soft feminine way that Dar or Eliza or even Nancy would sigh in pleasure. Steve can feel the wet warmth spreading from Billy’s pants to his own. Billy is collapsed still, slackly removing his fingers from Steve’s mouth, and Steve moves in to lick the skin at Billy’s neck, leaving his tongue bitter with musky cologne.

Billy rights himself when he’s come down, wiping his fingers casually on a vaguely repulsed Steve’s pants.

“Chill. You’re gonna have to wash those anyway.”

“Oh my God,” Steve says. His eyes are blown. “Fuck. I didn’t even think. We can’t go back to Fiji like this.”

“Shit, you’re right,” Billy says, trying to assess the damage. Billy grabs Steve by the wrist and drags him outside, closing the shed behind them. It’s easier to see out here, where the moon streams down through the branches of bare oaks. Even in the low light it’s painfully evident that they both have darkened wet stains soaking their crotches. 

“Tie your jacket around your waist,” Steve says, following his own instructions. It’s still cold without his jacket, but it’s necessary. Billy reluctantly obeys and sheds his own.

“Fuck, Harrington,” he groans. “You’re gonna make us look so _gay_.”

They trek back through the woods, and the peeping frogs are even louder now that night has fallen. The brothers are still out back around the fire, smoking their vapes and shouting over the music, but it makes it easy to get lost in the crowd as they edge around the side of the house toward the front lawn. 

Steve’s plan is to head to the parking lot, take off, but Billy calls after him.

“Hey,” he says. “You should stay over. You can have my bed.”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t wanna intrude. I should probably leave you to your lock-in, like—”

“I know you’ve only had a few hits,” Billy elaborates, looking anywhere but Steve’s eyes again. “But you’re kind of a fuckin’ spaz. I don't want you driving all blazed and getting pulled over by Hopper, and then getting _me_ kicked off the team for dealing pot. Because that would be a total Harrington move. So let’s cut our losses.”

That’s about the nicest invitation he’s going to get from Billy, so Steve nods, says “Thanks,” and trails behind him up to the front steps. 

They come into the brightly lit foyer and it’s unusually empty, Billy’s brothers being sick of the winter weather and taking any chance they can get to stay outside longer. Steve always feels strange in Fiji, like it’s a different world he’s fallen into. 

“I know I’m not supposed to drink for like, six more hours,” Billy says as they begin their ascent up to the landing. “Rules are rules, but I need a shot right the fuck now.” 

“I won’t tell on you.” 

“And like, I don’t think a little blow would hurt anybody,” Billy shrugs.

“You’re bad,” Steve says, but he likes the mischievous look in Billy’s eyes.

They weave down a few hallways to get to Billy’s room, the last room on the right. The door looks a little beat up, and inside it’s a complete disaster. His bed is a tangle of mismatched blankets, there’s clothes all over the floor, rock posters tacked up unevenly to the walls, a few different half-finished fifths taking up most of the space on his desk. Steve notes that a girl’s black panties are discarded at the foot of the bed. 

“So _this_ is where you roofie me.”

Billy rolls his eyes, goes to get a shot glass from an otherwise empty drawer on the desk. He unscrews a bottle of Fireball and glugs it messily into the glass. 

“Shut up and take this shot, Harrington.”


End file.
